An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series A Meal That Didn’t Add Up Set a pot of beans on the table and look at it closely. It’s been simmering since morning. The broth has body, but not much weight. When it’s ladled out, it runs thin. The beans are soft and ready, but there aren’t enough to…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series You step into the garden knowing the season is about finished. The bean poles are bare now. A few dry pods rattle in the wind where the vines were pulled. Corn shocks lean along the fence, waiting their turn at the crib. The potato rows lie open and dark where…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series The Door Beneath the House The door sat low to the ground beside the back steps. Most days it stayed shut, its boards dark from years of weather. In winter, it opened often. Someone lifted the latch and the door scraped softly against the dirt. Cold air rolled up the steps before anything could be seen below. A narrow set of…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series A pot of beans sits on the stove in late March. They’ve been soaking since morning. There’s cornmeal in the bin and a heel of fatback left from winter slaughter, but not much else. The cellar shelves have thinned. The last jars of green beans are already spoken…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series The first thing you notice is the crunch. A good mountain apple doesn’t yield much when you bite into it. There’s a sharp crack as the skin breaks, followed by dense flesh that holds its shape under pressure. Juice comes after, not before. The apple doesn’t collapse or turn soft…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series Before freezers reached mountain kitchens, canning sausage was a practical response to a stubborn reality. Ground meat didn’t keep the way whole cuts did. Once a hog was broken down, sausage became the most vulnerable part of the work. Families knew from experience that if it wasn’t handled…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series Step into an old mountain kitchen, and you notice the skillet before anything else. It sits on the stovetop or hangs near the range, ready for the next meal. Folks kept cast iron because it worked, and its steady heat helped shape the dishes that defined Appalachian cooking….
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series A strip of fatback in a hot pan offers a familiar scent. The sizzle settles into a steady rhythm, and the kitchen takes on a soft haze that Appalachian cooks knew well. Their gardens offered plenty of food but not much flavor. Beans carried their own comfort but…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series Daybreak is quiet and subdued. A lingering chill hangs in the air, and the rustling of leaves hints at something unseen nearby. An Appalachian hog steps out from a stand of young poplar, nose to the ground, as comfortable in the woods as any wild creature. It pauses…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series It’s native. It’s sweet. It grows along half the rivers in Appalachia. And still, most folks in pawpaw country have never tasted one. Maybe you’ve passed it a hundred times: growing low along a creek, hidden beneath the canopy. Or maybe you’ve caught a whiff in late September:…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series Chef Jacques Pépin said that our food reflects our history. Around here, that’s not theory—it’s fact. Southern cooking isn’t just something passed down. It’s something that kept folks alive. It remembers what people went through, and it doesn’t let much go to waste. If you want to know…
An installment in our Appalachian Foodways series There are snacks, and then there’s the Moon Pie. It’s the kind of treat that holds a certain charm, sitting on the shelves of country stores, its chocolate-coated promise tempting anyone with a taste for something classic. Moon Pies have been around for over a century and are…